


Cold Cold Cold

by wewillalwaysenduphere



Series: Take The Path That Leads To Power [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Confusing, Dean is just obsessed with Sam, Dean's Birthday, Dean's POV, Depression, Drinking, Foreshadowing, Gen, Harvelle's Roadhouse, Implied Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Timestamp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 05:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7832905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wewillalwaysenduphere/pseuds/wewillalwaysenduphere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Word had gotten out about the prodigy, the Boy King, the Heir of Hell, and years from now the hunters would remember this day, the 24th of January 1999, Dean’s twentieth birthday, when they had laughed and said “Oh, come on now, Ash. It’s not like the goddamn apocalypse is about to begin”.</p><p>Because it had been about to begin, and Lucifer was not just a legend. Because they thought the Boy King was not a threat. Because years from now they would regret and wish they could turn back time, avoid the inevitable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Cold Cold

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time we see Dean's and John's side of the story, and it's just a short timestamp, set a few months before Knowledge is Power.  
> It will probably be confusing, but I enjoyed writing it.  
> The title is taken from the eponymous song by Cage The Elephant.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it :)

 

 

 _Oh my precious ember burning, my sweet glowing light_  
_From the moment I first saw you I was yours and you were mine_  
_Deep down we both knew you were trouble by design_  
_And the echo of my mother's words, "baby don't you play with fire."_

_-Too Late To Say Goodbye, Cage The Elephant_

 

 

Dean doesn’t wake up hungover, he wakes up drunk.

“Late night, son?”

John Winchester is already up and packing, looking grimly at him from where he’s standing next to the small table, stuffing jeans and shirts into a duffel bag, wearing his old leather jacket and hunter boots. He sounds terribly gleeful.

Dean’s head feels like it’s about to kill him, but it’s nothing he doesn’t deserve. He drank too much and then some. He still somehow managed to get the pretty blonde bartender to suck him off behind the club. It had been a success, as far as birthdays went for him, and even more important, he hadn’t had to face his father while he was gone.

Now he rolls onto his back, tries to cover his eyes with his hand, the sun too bright, his mouth too dry and whoever keeps hitting his head better stop before Dean gets a chance to off them. Hell, he’d shoot everyone that talked to him right now except for his father. (And Sammy, of course.)

He turned twenty last night but he had been drinking for years – he had enough fake IDs to pass as cop, federal agent or Marshall, getting some drinks at some shabby bar really wasn’t something to be proud of.

“I’m gonna wait in the car. Be there in twenty or I leave”, John announces, grabbing his duffel and his weapons before leaving the room.

There is something like hatred in his voice, at least disgust, but it had been there since the day Dean lost Sammy, and he knows he deserves it.

He sits up slowly, the room spinning around him, and he’s happy he’s only wearing boxers while padding into the small bathroom, tugging them down and kicking them into some corner, mind solely focused on getting under that shower. John would leave in twenty minutes; Dean has no illusions about that. He better be ready by then.

Once the hard stream of hot water hits him, he starts to relax, the throbbing in his head almost goes away and he is able to close his eyes again, fishing for whatever cheap soap the motel is offering. After grabbing it, he washes himself, desperately trying to keep his thoughts away from his sixteenth birthday, the first time he got laid, the exhilaration and the feeling of dread and destruction when he came back to the motel to find his brother gone.

Dean had stumbled inside, completely wasted at four am in the morning, wanting to hug his little brother and thank him for letting him go – because John had ordered him to stay with Sam, and Dean had said “Yes, sir”, and later on convinced his cute eleven-year-old brother to stay in the hotel while he went out to celebrate.

The last memory Dean has of his brother is Sammy waving at him with a wide grin, closing the door behind him. Sam hadn’t been afraid. He hadn’t expected anything coming for him.

But someone came, and since then the 24th of January was the worst day of the year for Dean, birthday or not.

 

_“Sammy, this is important for me. Can you do that for me? Be alone for an evening?”_

_Big kaleidoscope eyes are looking up at him, blinking, before a smile starts spreading over his beautiful baby brother’s face._

_“Is it our secret?”, he wants to know, so young and excited and alive._

_“Yes. Just between you and me. Dad can never know.”_

_That’s when Sam grinned, nodding._

_“I can do that. But only because you’re the best big brother ever.”_

What  a lie. Whenever Dean thinks back, this is the moment he usually starts drinking, but it got worse. This had been a compliment from Sammy, his sweet young brother who didn’t know better.

_“Yes, I am. You’re lucky to have me.”_

Had been his answer, and to this day Dean hates and despises himself for saying that, for going out and leaving his brother behind to be abducted.

 

Dean just barely manages to be out of the motel in twenty minutes, but somehow, he makes it. Sam is gone for four years now.

After it happened, he had called John who was on a hunt, and completely drunk he had cried into his phone, sentences that didn’t make any sense. He fell asleep after, only to be woken up four hours later when John was back, the hunt forgotten, and made Dean tell the whole story.

John had looked like he wanted to beat him up right there and then, but they simply didn’t have the time for that. John called Bobby and every hunter he knew and that owed him a favour, and then he started searching. Dean was too drunk to be useful in a fight, but John let him come with, not able to deny his still crying son that suddenly looked so much younger.

They found a vampire nest three cities away and got rid of them, but no Sammy. And that’s how it continued. John hunted for three days straight, staying awake thanks to pills and caffeine, as sober as he hadn’t been in years. Dean occasionally slept in the Impala, but his dreams were filled with images of Sam being stabbed to death, sliced apart by claws, being abused, or the worst of all, raped by some sicko that wasn’t even a monster, just a normal guy hauled up somewhere with his sweet innocent brother.

The third day John screamed at Bobby over the phone, and Dean pretended not to understand but he knew what they’re saying, something about statistics and the chances to be found alive and Dean knew their time ran out yesterday, but he’s not ready to let go and not ready to accept he’d killed his brother.

That night John booked a motel, bought a bottle of whiskey and sat down opposite to Dean, looking at him over the cheap wooden table, taking a large sip before handing the liquor over to Dean.

“He’s dead”, John said, and there was no emotion in his voice, no sadness, no worry, no regret, no anger. _He’s dead_ , he said, but _I’m dead_ is what he meant.

Dean started to argue.

“He could be held in a vamp’s nest. Or by werewolves. They could have turned him. A demon could have possessed him. Maybe he was hexed. Mayb-“

“Dean”, his father said, very quietly, and very, very tired. “Whatever Sam is now, it’s most likely not human. That means, when hunters happen upon him, they’ll take him out. Hell, when we get him the best we can do is take him out.”

John took another large gulp, his eyes resting on Dean heavier than they ever have before, and suddenly Dean wished for punishment. Three days that his beautiful baby brother was gone, and there had been nothing. No hits, no promise he’d be grounded, he had even been allowed to drive.

But now those eyes are weighing him down like concrete strapped to his ankles and he’s waiting for it.

“I hope that night out was worth killing your brother.”

Then John got up and left, and it’s the only time he ever blamed Dean. There’s no punishment after that, nothing, but hearing it said out loud, knowing he is the one that killed the intelligent boy with brown bangs and kaleidoscope eyes he had loved ever since he could remember broke something inside him, the pieces of it scraping along his insides even four years after, tearing him apart from within, sharp and destructive and never-resting.

 

It’s almost ironic that although Sam had been the one who was least interested in hunting, in the family business, in following John’s orders, had been what made them a family.

Now that he was gone everything was different, and although Dean and John never fought, the mood was icy at best. Without Sam telling stories from school, complaining about the crappy motel rooms and that he was eleven and had to learn how to fight they were just two hunters, two men doing the job together.

Sam had been warmth and home and softness, Sam had been jokes and witty remarks and snarky comments. Sam had meant sharing his food even if he didn’t want to, Sam had meant sleeping in the same bed, all curled up and warm.

Dean had always wanted a bed to himself, now that he had it it was empty and cold without Sam. Instead of keeping his old clothes for his growing brother Dean started throwing them away. It took him almost a year to do that, to come to the realization Sam was gone for good.

Despite the statistics and their conversation in the hotel room, Dean and John kept searching for Sam. First it was weeks, then months, then a year, and they realized they had been across the whole country, had followed every lead even if it was just wishful thinking, even though the trail had long gone cold, but after a year on the road and nothing to show for it the realization began to set in.

They had lost Sam.

Dean had lost Sam.

He was only seventeen and already drank as much as his dad, but John didn’t mind, he had stopped lecturing Dean altogether.

Dean knew why, not because his father thought he was good enough or grown-up: It was because he was hopeless, because he had screwed up the only job he ever really had, that had ever mattered. _Look out for Sammy._

And he had gone to bang some chick, leaving his scrawny kid brother behind to be abducted by the worst creature out there, and if Dean ever found that thing, he’d make it _regret_.

 

Dean never actually picked up a razor to harm himself, but he had his methods to make himself pay for what he considered his worst mistake.

He would be less careful than necessary on a hunt, would let a knife he could have dodged graze him or just spread his arms and let someone take a shot at him, because no flesh wound, no matter how deep the cut or how bad the broken bone could ever compare to what he felt inside.

He still dreamed of Sammy, but now he sometimes saw him as a monster. As a vampire trying to suck him dry, as a werewolf wanting to rip out his heart, and he always lets him. He always lets Sam kill him, because monster or not he’s Dean’s beautiful, soft and sweet baby brother and he deserves everything Dean can give.

 

Obsession. That’s the word. Dean is obsessed with finding his lost brother, and John is obsessed with revenge for both Mary and his son. They are two broken men trying to make sense of their life, but everything that ever turned their mere existence into a life has been taking away from them.

Now Dean is twenty, and he doesn’t cry at night anymore, but he still dreams, and he sleeps with a bottle of whiskey next to his bed. He longs for the day he finds his brother, wonders if he would still recognize him, how much he would’ve grown and if he would still be as lanky as he was as an eleven-year-old, if his hair would be still as soft and brown, his eyes the same kaleidoscope colours that made him want to drown.

Dean never thinks about the possibility that Sam is dead, even though it is most likely. If he would admit to himself that Sam was dead, the only possible next step would be to swallow his gun and end his sorry existence, and they haven’t found a body yet. So maybe his Sammy is still out there, still alive and still beautiful and clever and snarky.

 

Dean’s too drunk to keep his thoughts from straying, and John doesn’t talk while they drive. He doesn’t know where they’re going but he doesn’t mind that much either, he’s slightly nauseous but not enough to ask John to pull over, so he sleeps in his seat as much as he can, trying not to think of Sam when simultaneously he is all Dean can think about.

Thankfully, the ride is eventually over and Dean recognizes the place, has been here many times before actually. Ellen’s Roadhouse. It’s only afternoon when they enter, so it’s empty and almost quiet, the AC making the climate far more bearable than it had been in the car. Dean closes his eyes for a second, exhales. He has no home, but he likes this place.

 

Ash is there, and a couple of other hunters. John joins them while Dean orders a beer, trying to keep himself from sobering up. Also, it helps against the headache. Not that he doesn’t deserve the pain.

After grabbing his bottle he walks over, flops down next to John, sits through some congratulations for his birthday and laughs when they ask about last night, saying all the right things a young man should say in his situation and then pretends to be too drunk to actively take part in their conversation.

It’s okay, because Ash has picked something up, and it’s interesting and sounds unlikely, but then again Ash is brilliant and if nothing else, the story is good.

“So the demons are trying to raise a King?”

“Apparently. Some demon I exorcised back in Philly let something slip, and after that, I couldn’t turn my back on it. So I started digging, and there are rumours going around. They call him the Boy King. Apparently hand-picked by Lucifer or something.”

“Yeah, hand-picked by a non-existent angel. You’d think demons would know better than that.”

“Well, they’re demons. I guess believing in angels and heaven is easier when you know hell and demons are real.”

“Doesn’t make a lick of sense to me, boys. Why educate some youngling? What’s so special ‘bout him?”

“I haven’t found that out yet. It’s not like there’s an online database on demon gossip and how much of it is true.”

For Dean they are just a bunch of voices twining together like the smoke rising from a fire, he’s listening, but doesn’t really care. Sounds more like a legend or a fairy tale then some actual thing to hunt, and John and some older hunter seem to have reached the same conclusion.

“Until there’s proof, we don’t need to worry about that, I think.”

“Well, I think when they have a King that manages to unite all demons under him it’s already too late, don’t you think?”

“Oh, come on now, Ash. It’s not like the goddamn apocalypse is about to begin.”

“Yeah, we don’t doubt your abilities it’s just...Lucifer. He’s nothing but a legend.”

“For normal people, demons and vampire and djinns are nothing but legends. We should know better than to dismiss cases this easily.”

“It’s not like it’s a case yet. And if you want to, no one keeps you from checking it out. Maybe someone else is willing to work with you.”

“Okay, I guess I’m gonna ask some other people.”

 

Dean yawns where he sits, dismissing the whole Boy King thing as nothing important. Instead of thinking about Ash’s theory, he remembers his clever and sweet little brother, not knowing that he is ignoring the first actual lead in years, right here in front of him.

Not knowing his innocent baby brother is months away from tasting demon blood for the first time, from knowing power beyond anything Dean can imagine.

Word had gotten out about the prodigy, the Boy King, the Heir of Hell, and years from now the hunters would remember this day, the 24th of January 1999, Dean’s twentieth birthday, when they had laughed and said _“Oh, come on now, Ash. It’s not like the goddamn apocalypse is about to begin”._

Because it had been about to begin, and Lucifer was not just a legend. Because they thought the Boy King was not a threat. Because years from now they would regret and wish they could turn back time, avoid the inevitable.

But here they sit, laughing and drinking, not knowing what’s going to happen, while Dean thinks of his bright-eyed and artless little brother, not knowing Sam Winchester is the one who will claim the throne of hell, kick off the apocalypse and set Lucifer free.

Not knowing his beautiful, sweet, innocent, soft baby brother doesn’t exist anymore.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know, this directly contradicts Sam's memories in Now the Dark begins to Rise.  
> It will all be explained later on :)
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated, and if you want to, let me know what you think happened and what is true - Sam's story, Dean's, both or neither? ;)


End file.
